


it's a shame you don't know

by rockinrye



Category: Glee
Genre: AU, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 16:53:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockinrye/pseuds/rockinrye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there is royalty in Westbrook, Santana Lopez is it. </p>
<p>Archbishop McKinley Prep is her kingdom; and, the grand house on the hill of Xavier Road, her castle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

If there is royalty in Westbrook, Santana Lopez is it. 

Archbishop McKinley Prep is her kingdom; and, the grand house on the hill of Xavier Road, her castle. 

Daddy writes big checks and she is beyond beautiful, and untouchable, and brilliant. She's equipped with a wicked tongue, expressive eyebrows and the perfect pair of accents to any top. 

She’s not kind but nobody cares. 

She’s not a virgin but they believe she is. 

She’s not happy but nobody can see that. 

There’s sweat on her temples and between the valley of her breasts and an ache in her thighs that she loves— that reminds her she’s alive. An ache that she seeks every morning when she slips into tiny Nike shorts and matching sports bras and shoes made for running (this morning they’re red). An ache that comes when her commanding stride turns into a sprint for something she can’t find. It’s calming and callous, soothing and chaotic but it settles her, something in her, every morning before the sun is at its highest. 

Every eye in her home is still closed when she reaches the top of the hill, slips past the gates and Marcus, who protects what her father’s built with a straight face, a broad chest and dark sunglasses that cover his calculating glare. He smiles at her, barely visible but there and very real. She tips her own head with a smirk and waving fingers. 

She’s reaching for her toes as soon as she’s inside, exhaling softly and stretching muscles. Then guzzling ice-cold water and eating a wedge of the mango May slices for her every week. She slides the tupperware back into the fridge and jogs up the winding stairs to the first floor, slips down the hall then up the back staircase to her own room on the second floor. 

Her clothes are in a pile on the floor and hot water is cleaning her body in no time. 

She lives for routine. For waking early and running, for small smiles at the deserving, for that second bottle of ice-cold water and that one slice of mango but, most of all, she lives for this, this cleansing that prepares her to be Santana Lopez each day. Because in the time it takes to become Santana Lopez, she’s just Santana.

Puck’s sitting on her bed when she comes out of her bathroom, still in the boxers and V-neck tee he usually sleeps in. He smirks and she rolls her eyes, picks up the remote to her dock and turns on some music. 

“Good morning to you, too,” he says when she doesn’t acknowledge him. She just hits him with a pointed glare, reaches into her drawer for her underclothes and heads back into the massive en suite bathroom. She’s not ready to deal with him today and she doesn’t have to. So, she won’t. 

She hears the door click a few minutes later when she’s tugging on plum shaded panties with a matching lace bra and dusk blue accents. She stands for a few moments staring at her reflection in the large mirror that backgrounds the marble sink. It’s almost too easy to ease the smirk onto her lips. She doesn’t mind.

...

May, their “maid” (though he doesn’t really like calling her that), is standing over the stove humming and stirring and spicing when he jogs down the stairs, chino shorts hanging off his hips, a white, black and gold rugby spread over his chest and wheat toned Clarks on his feet. She smiles briefly, and turns back to her cooking when he tips his head in greeting.

He's gulping grape juice when Santana comes into the kitchen, lips pressed together, eyebrows set in a way that says they’re teasing to arch. Puck gives her a quick once over, eyes scanning over her chest pressing against the sharp V of her shirt. She gives him a bored look in return when his eyes meet hers and then her hair is whipping over her shoulder as she yanks open the fridge. 

“Morning,” she says, leaning her head back out of the door, to look at May. She turns her head, flashes a smile and asks Santana how she’s doing. “I’m fine,” she says sounding anything but. There’s a stick of string cheese gripped in her palm with the bottle of Pom she's fetched when she closes the refrigerator. 

He’s not extending any more invitations for her to acknowledge him this morning, so. He slips onto a steel stool at the large island in the center of the kitchen and polishes off his grape juice. She gets like this, moody and mute, which, for some reason, is more annoying to deal with than the default of bitchy, snarky and conniving. 

“Hi,” she says finally, easing onto the stool next to him. She twists off the cap of the pomegranate juice, takes a swig, and then works on unwrapping the cheese. She peels off a thick string, passes it to him then focuses on the buzzing of her phone. “Party tonight. Cocktail attire. Dad says it’s ‘important’,” she lifts a hand to make air-quotes then rolls her eyes, “But that’s every party.” 

Puck just nods and sticks the cheese in his mouth while she talks. May’s still humming some tune he should know after two and half years in this home when she slides a plate in front of him. Three slices of bacon, an omelet filled with three different cheeses, ham, green peppers, onions and mushrooms like every Saturday morning before this one. Santana snatches a strip of bacon while she types out a text. 

“You have your own food, bitch.” 

“Whatever, Puck,” she says, not looking up from her phone. May puts Santana’s plate down in front of her – a scramble with skillet potatoes, spinach, turkey, peppers and onions – then crosses the kitchen to get the salsa. As soon as Santana’s shaken pepper and poured salsa his fork is scooping from her plate. She elbows him half-heartedly but doesn’t say anything else. He doesn't really expect her to.

...

Mike looks good. He doesn’t dress like a douchebag who stepped out of a Black Label ad like everyone else in Westbrook and she appreciates it most days. His jeans aren’t three sizes too small or four too big. They sit nice on his hips and she’s thinking about the well-defined cut into his sides she knows is beneath them. He’s got on a nice pair of Jordans that he’d tell a fucking story about if she complimented. So, she doesn’t. She just rolls the window down and tells him to put a fucking move on it.

“Checking me out?” He teases when he slips into her black Range Rover, smiling widely and pushing his Ray-Ban’s up onto the top of his head. Santana has tints that are darker than legal so the sun isn’t much of a problem inside her vehicle. 

“Watch the interior,” she says, smoothing a hand over the ivory leather, instead of supplying an answer he knew he was never going to get. He’s well versed in her attitude and just grins at her in response, reaches over the console to stroke her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. She fights a smile that’s kissed away a moment later. “I didn’t pick you up to make out, asshole,” she says, leaning back against her seat. He chuckles.

“Never said you did.” She doesn’t respond and he doesn’t say anything more. He’s never really been bothered by her attempts to fuck with him. He just reaches for the radio, moves his hand out of the way when she goes to swat it then plugs the AUX cable into his iPhone. She can’t really argue with the Aaliyah coming out of her speakers, so she just drives and sings the lyrics under her breath as they ride. 

“You really break up with Jesse?” Mike asks her when they’re closer to Asland Boulevard, home to all the stores and boutiques that see her father’s credit card most often. 

“Yeah, why?” 

“Just wondering. Everyone was talking about it yesterday.” Of course they were. She doesn’t really care about Jesse at all – or the break up for that matter – but she really doesn’t have time to deal with the damage control the truth would require either. 

“He broke up with me. It was amicable,” she says, which isn’t at all true, but it’s easier. Mike nods and doesn’t question her any further, though she can tell he wants to. “Can you play 'Age Ain’t Nothing But A Number'?” He complies easily.

...

“I’m pretty sure I’m not allowed in here,” he says when Santana threads her fingers through his and pulls him toward the dressing rooms in the boutique.

“I don’t care,” she tells him seriously then pushes him onto the stool in the corner of the room, his arms full of dresses. She turns herself toward the mirror on the other side of the room. It’s massive, covering the expanse of the wall with an elaborate pewter bevel. 

“Are you playing the new Temple Run?” She asks because Mike's eyes aren't on her and they should be. Her hands are on her hips and she’s wearing nothing more than the matching bra and panties she put on this morning. His head lifts and he smirks, letting out a rumbling chuckle though his thumb never ceases to slide over the screen on his phone. 

“I vote for this one.” 

She rolls her eyes and slips into the first of five dresses. It’s not like her closet isn’t full of things to wear for this very occasion, but Daddy is paying and she doesn’t believe in repeating dresses. Mike slips his phone back into his pocket, watches her dip in and out of dresses with attentive eyes and oft-moistened lips, and drops an appreciative adjective into conversation when her eyes tell him he should. 

She slips on the last dress, tight and black, and turns from the mirror to him with expectant eyes. 

“This one,” he says quietly. She’s probably (definitely) going to buy the other four, but the look in his eyes is confirmation enough that this will serve its purpose tonight. 

“Help me out of it?” She says, voice dropping a couple octaves. He’s off the stool and smoothing the straps down her shoulders in no time. She blows him in the backseat of her truck for his effort.

...

Puck’s mom would rather pose for the fucking _paparazzi_ than family photos. So, she’s not home and he has no clue where she is. He wants to hate her because she’s never around but she’s his fucking mom, so when his phone rings while he’s out banging this freshman, who looks like a senior, he stops what he’s doing to talk to her. (He’s done anyway, though he was hoping for another round.)

He pulls his boxers and shorts back on and grabs his shirt then kind of squeezes the chick’s (Melody, maybe?) thigh. He slips out of her living room and back to the Bentley GT he has parked in her driveway before he picks up. 

“Hey Sweetie,” his mom says in that little singsong voice that makes him feel six again. It’s hard not to roll his eyes and flare his nostrils though and he hits the gas harder than intended when he peels out of the neighborhood.

“Hey.” 

“How are you?” 

“Swell,” he says sarcastically. He can feel her jerk wherever she is, like he’s slapped her in the face but he can’t find it in him to feel bad. He wants to hang up. He shouldn’t be small talking with his mom but there's not much more to say. “Where are you?” His curiosity is genuine.

“The Hamptons,” she says. 

“Coming home soon?” 

“Well, no …” 

“Cool. I’ll talk to you later," he sort of snaps. He can't help it. She sighs as if she understands. He doesn't want her to. He'd prefer she pretended she didn't. At least then, he could pretend she didn't know she was fucking with (hurting) him. 

“There’s some money in your account, hun.”

“There’s always money in my account.” 

“Noah –“ He doesn’t wait for her to finish the sentence.

...

Santana’s skin is still shower-warm but the knock on her door and the slow turn of the knob still manage to raise goose bumps over her skin. It’s almost funny how it straightens her spine but doesn’t draw her attention away from her reflection. It’s kind of sick, too.

She ignores him when he enters, wets her lips with her tongue and pushes her hair back over her shoulder. Her body doesn’t fair as well and a shudder shifts somewhere within her when his shoes rap against the floor. Still, her eyes remain steady on their match in the glass as she reaches for the tube of expensive mascara. She uncaps it just as his eyes find hers and the chill she feels isn’t from the exposed skin of her chest or bare legs. Only black lace panties and lotion cover her and he’s smirking as soon as he notices. 

“Satan,” he says, voice smug and gruff. She laughs and then drags the bristles over her lashes waiting for more. There's always more. 

“What do you want?” She hates that she knows the answer; loves that she knows it, too. 

His tongue slides over his bottom lip as his hand slips over her collarbone and down until a thumb is hovering _just there_. His lips drop onto her neck with such gentle pressure that they may not have dropped at all. Still, the wand twitches in her hand. She feigns disinterest, though, and extends the lashes on her other eye. His eyes are still on hers when she’s done. She fixes him with a bored look before she stops looking at the mirror and trains her eyes on the hand covering her breast. Her eyebrows lift with amusement as she screws the wand into the tube and flattens it onto the counter with her palm. It makes a sharp noise that breaks through the silence he's drawn before his voice does. 

“You.”

She knows that much, but hearing it is always both pleasant and disturbing.

Her mouth drops open just slightly when his thumb and forefinger meet around pebbled flesh, but it spreads into a sneer when she covers his hand, pushes it away and tells him to get in line. 

“I really don't think that’s necessary,” he supplies, moving his other hand down over the dips in her taut stomach. She pushes the chintz back just as the pads of his fingers tease at her skin just beneath the lace clutching her hips. 

“Not happening, Puckerman,” she hisses, standing. Her body is as lissome as ever, stretching and curving, teasing, too. “Here,” she adds, passing him a string of pearls. She lifts her hair, thick, dark, and full of loose curls, and tilts her neck for him. 

“Don’t,” she says when he moves to say something. She can nearly hear the gears grinding. “Only in your dreams.” 

“Only when I’m bored.” He snaps the clasp and presses a kiss to her shoulder. A kiss that’s very much there, even when he’s gone.

...

There’s a long row of cocktail dresses in her closet, a jewelry box full of diamonds and pearls on her vanity, and a rack of shoes dedicated to this very aspect of her life: pretending. There’s nothing new about this routine, nothing glaringly different about the atmosphere, the music or the people, but something feels off. Something’s shifted tonight.

She’s moving through the crowd, with grace that’s never needed practice and fleeting bright smiles that have, when her father calls her name, stealing her attention. Her smile is bright before she finds his face. His is a mirror of hers, painted with the wide grin he uses to charm strangers. His fingers curl over the arc of her shoulder and he kisses her cheek softly before tugging her in. 

“Gavin. Royce. This is my daughter Santana,” he’s beaming, like always but there’s a tug somewhere behind her belly button that connects with the thought that this is just pretend. Still, she sinks into his embrace and shakes the hands of the men standing in front of her. “They’ve just moved to Westbrook. Gavin here is an oncologist at St. Rose.” 

“Nice to meet you,” she says, making sure to make eye contact with the both of them. 

“They have a daughter, Rachel, who’s transferring to Archbishop McKinley. Maybe you can show her around, love?” She nods easily though everything in her wants to roll her eyes. 

“Sure thing, Daddy.” She flashes a smile at the Berrys before tipping her head up at Dr. Lopez. “Puck’s all alone over there. I’m going to go keep him company.” 

“Okay, sweetie.” She presses a kiss to his cheek and lifts her hand to wave goodbye lightly as he adds, “Rachel’s in the restroom, we’ll send her your way when she comes back, okay?”

“Perfect.”

...

“Baby,” she teases in his ear, fingers dancing over the jacket of the Tom Ford suit covering his back before spinning herself to take residence at his other side. “You look lonely.”

It’s a game. It’s always a game. 

“It still fucking blows me that no one knows how evil you are,” he says, tipping the champagne flute to his lips. Santana rolls her eyes but starts smiling and talking animatedly as soon as one of her dad’s colleagues gets her attention. 

He checks her out while she talks. She’s in this super tight black dress that could very well be painted on. There's a mesh insert between that makes a V over her chest. There’s not really a back on the dress as the V the fabric splits into peaks right before the curve of her ass. She’s his height in her pumps and, fuck, if he can’t help his train of thought. 

She flicks her hair over her shoulder, catches his eye when she looks back then smirks before turning back to the guy. (Dr. Holder, maybe? He doesn’t really give a fuck. It’s her job to be charming and smiling and a little handsy, fingers on shoulders and grins with feigned interest, not his. He just has to show.) 

“I heard St. James dumped you,” Puck says when the doctor is gone and she’s in front of him, nibbling shrimp from a tray that’s just passed. He’s not looking at her face when he licks his lips. She laughs and eases into the chair in front of him, makes a show of crossing her legs, slowly sliding one thigh over the other as the fabric of her dress stretches to accomodate before leaning back against her chair. 

“I’m not exactly sad,” she deadpans reaching for his glass. Then she’s smirking like she knows something he doesn’t.

“Of course not, you still have Brittany … and Matt. You still fucking Chang?”

She laughs openly at that, eyes amused and bright and his gall. He knows no one’s heard him, but it’s still a wonder anyone misses the games they play. It’s better that way. 

“Occasionally,” she supplies without a hint of hesitation before finishing his drink. “What’s it matter to you?” 

“Doesn’t. Just heard you weren’t satisfying St. Lame.” 

She laughs again. “I wasn’t,” she shrugs, “Kurt was.” 

His jaw jerks just a hint and she pulls her bottom lip into her mouth. Her shoulders lift as she rolls her eyes and she’s about to say something he can’t really predict then a voice he doesn't recognize hits his ears and halts whatever it is. 

...

“Santana?”

It’s awkward, really, that her dads sent her over here to meet Dr. Lopez’s daughter but they want her to adjust and think it’s important that she do things on her own, which she understands (and suits her just fine) but it’s still weird. 

God, she hopes she's said the right name.

She feels like an intruder and the girl’s eyes – bright, lidded with long thick lashes – scan her whole body quickly before she stands. (She’s… God, she’s gorgeous and that alone makes her feel a little nervous, makes her feel like she’s been sent into the lion’s den with another Quinn Fabray.) The girl’s smiling again before Rachel can really even register it, but she still feels judged and she’s wondering if she’s passed whatever test that was. 

“Rachel, right?” Santana says, extending her hand and smiling. Rachel takes it, the girl’s palms are warm and soft and she’s got a strong grip but the smile never leaves her face. She's incredibly hard to read. 

Rachel laughs a little nervously. She knows her hand is clammy but Santana doesn’t jerk away from the touch, just rubs her thumb across the top of it and slips her hand away after a moment. Her hand disappears completely and Rachel assumes it’s resting on this boy’s back. He’s smiling at her as Santana speaks. 

“Rachel, this is my stepbrother, Noah,” she says, “Noah, this is Rachel – Berry, right?” She nods in confirmation. “Her family just landed in Westbrook. She’ll be with us at Archbishop.” 

“Nice to meet you, Noah,” she hears herself say. She feels anxious and she hates it, hates this whole set up. God knows what they’re thinking of her. Her hand drifts to the hem of her dress and she tugs as her eyes take in what Santana’s wearing. She looks … well, stunning and she can’t help but feel a little plain in this old, navy blue dress when this girl looks like a page from a magazine or a snapshot on a blog post. 

The boy chuckles and takes her hand, kisses the top of it and lets this grin (it’s kind of dirty if she’s being honest) spread over his face. It doesn't exactly heighten her level of comfort, but his voice is smooth and welcoming when he says, “Pleasure’s mine but people call me Puck.” 

“Noah’s a lovely name.” She feels her cheeks warm and it takes everything in her not to close her eyes and wish herself away. Santana’s busying herself looking at something in the distance. Rachel has to keep from looking over her shoulder to see what. 

“Thank you,” he says. 

“So,” Santana says, sitting back in her seat. She pats the arm of the chair beside her and Rachel moves to sit in it after glancing at Noah. “What’s your classification?” 

“I’m a junior,” she says, straightening in the seat. Santana nods and, God, she really wishes she could read that facial expression. It’s calculating and a little unnerving but the smile is there again and she feels herself relax unwillingly. She doesn’t like the idea of being set up with friends, but maybe?

“Champagne?” Her head shakes rapidly and she feels like an idiot when she says, “I’m only 16.” 

“S’fine,” Puck says. She doesn’t miss Santana rolling her eyes, but then the girl’s looking down at her dress, which barely covers her thighs, and smoothing it out. She mashes her lips together to prevent another silly protest and watches as he grabs flutes from a tray coming past. He presses one into her hand, hands the other to Santana and keeps the last for himself. “Dr. Lopez is cool with it as long as you don’t overdo it," he says in a way that makes it pretty clear he has experinc with "overdoing" it.

“Okay,” she mutters. She knows she’s more confident than this, but these two … they’re … she can’t describe it. They’re looking at her expectantly when she focuses her eyes, so she takes a sip and can’t help but giggle at the way the bubbles tickle her nose. 

She’s certain she wasn’t supposed to see him blow that kiss at Santana when she looks up, so she pretends she hasn’t and tells Santana about Ohio when she asks where they moved from. 

...

When Rachel leaves, it’s with a warm buzz on her skin and the promise of being shown the ropes by Santana. Noah says there are things he can show her, too, but Santana elbows him then walks her toward the exit where her father’s are waiting with Dr. Lopez.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The looks aren’t new. Santana’s aware of how good she looks in this uniform.

The looks aren’t new. Santana’s aware of how good she looks in this uniform. The pleats in the charcoal grey skirt stop mid-thigh and she’s explained to Headmaster Figgins that there really isn’t anything she can do about making it any longer.

(She didn’t tell him she altered them. The threat that Daddy would stop his very generous donations seemed to make that point moot anyway.)

The royal purple blazer is tailored to hug her body just right and the grey piping works as the perfect frame for ever-present cleavage. May presses her white button-ups on Fridays and she leaves the top two buttons unfastened. There’s always a pair of studs in her ear, usually diamonds, but she wears pearls on Thursdays. And, when there’s not a volleyball game she has no use for a ponytail, so dark hair covers her back, sleek as silk or in bountiful loose waves. 

She is as particular about her appearance as she is about every other minute detail of her life. So, no, the looks aren’t new, but that teasing one from Jesse as he smirks at her over Rachel’s shoulder is. He looks as if he feels somehow victorious. She doesn’t like it and she knows just how easy it is to wipe it away. It’s cute that he thinks he can get the best of her though. 

She smiles back, calls out, “Rachel,” when she’s close enough. The girl turns her head, smiling already, her hair sliding over her shoulder as her fingers comb through it. Her smile only seems to grow larger when she she sets her eyes on Santana. 

“Hi, Santana,” she says eagerly. Santana smiles and slides her arm over the girl’s shoulder.

“I see you’ve met Jesse.”

“Yeah,” Rachel beams. “He was telling me about the choir and the school’s theatre troupe.”

“Oh. You sing?” She’s hoping they didn’t discuss that at her father’s party. She can’t pretend she listened to everything the girl said. She tried, but really, she wasn’t _that_ interested. Rachel’s eyes light up, which Santana thinks is kind of cute and – what? 

She turns her attention to Jesse just to have someone to roll her eyes at before she looks back at Rachel.

“Yes,” the girl says, letting out a breath. Santana’s sure there are actual stars in her eyes – it hovers somewhere between weird and … The first bell is ringing before she can inquire any further but her goal was accomplished.

“See you around?” Jesse asks. Rachel nods, smiling, cheeks seeming like they’re hiding rubies.

“Good.” He smiles, reaches to squeeze at her hand and then looks at Santana and says her name with a curt nod before walking off. God, she kind of hates him. If dating him hadn’t been a power move, well, that ship would never have sailed. 

She doesn’t react, just ignores him and pushes at Rachel’s shoulder lightly, her hand still resting on it. 

“What class do you have?” She asks, dropping her arm away. “I’ll walk you.”

Rachel pulls a small goldenrod colored piece of paper out of the chest pocket on her blazer and unfolds it. Unfolded the piece of paper takes the shape of a star written on in thick black ink. “Um,” she says, her brows furrowing. “AP Lit and Composition.”

“Oh. We have that together then,” Santana says. There’s three sections of the course, but only one is at this time. “C’mon. I need to stop in the ladies’ room.”

She leads the way and holds the door for the girl when they get to the second floor bathroom.

“Everything’s so nice here,” Rachel says looking around. Santana shrugs and laughs a little, mutters a quick “yeah” as she looks through her bag for her lipgloss and then drops the leather satchel on the marble sink.

She can feel Rachel’s eyes on her as she applies her lip gloss and then presses her thumbs over skin to smooth her eyebrows. She blows a kiss at herself in the mirror both out of habit and for the satisfaction of hearing that small noise in Rachel’s throat. Awe isn’t new either, but it’s still nice.

“Gloss?” She says extending the tube to Rachel without looking at her. She runs her tongue over her teeth and then smiles at herself before running her fingers through her hair and turning to her side to see how it sits on her back.

“I usually just use chapstick,” Rachel says.

“Use this.” It doesn’t come off as optional but it isn’t exactly a demand either. Rachel looks like she’s putting in way too much thought into something so simple so Santana sighs and turns to her fully.

“Here,” she says, uncapping the tube. “Fix your mouth like you’re kissing someone.” 

Rachel’s eyebrows furrow and a wrinkle manifests between them. Santana tips up the girl’s chin with one hand and rubs the gloss over Rachel’s lips with her left one. She leans back and tilts her head. “Mash ‘em together.” Rachel does and then Santana takes her thumb and slowly swipes the excess off the corner of Rachel’s mouth. “It’s yours,” she says, dropping the gloss in Rachel’s hand.

“I couldn’t—“

“It’s fine. I have more. It looks good on you. You have nice lips.” Rachel smiles. “Now c’mon. We have class.”

...

 

_Nice lips_.

She’s never heard that compliment before. Her voice? That’s been lauded endlessly (and she’ll honestly never tire of it either) but it’s not often that anything physical is cheered, so that’s what she credits for the blush that creeps into her cheeks and the desire to press her fingers to her mouth, to feel what’s so nice about them. Santana’s spun on her heels already anyway, slinging her bag (leather; Rachel’s sure she’s seen it in Vogue) over her shoulder. She tugs her own bag higher up and grips it so hard her knuckles turn white as she follows.

“Cutting it close there, Ms. Lopez,” is the first thing she hears when they step into the classroom just as the last bell rings. She’s sure he’d be saying something to her too, if he knew her name. The look he’s giving the both of them seems to make that assumption valid.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Schue,” Santana says, voice sweeter than Rachel’s heard it. There’s something else there too, maybe. “I was helping our new student, Rachel, to class.” She watches the girl smile and hopes she doesn’t look entirely clueless.

The man, Mr. Schue apparently, is looking at her like he’s expecting something. She just nods in agreement then glances at Santana who’s sliding into a desk in the front row. There’s a cup of coffee waiting on the desk already and Santana’s grinning at the boy in the seat next to her. He’s slim and black with skin a few shades darker than Santana’s.

“Thanks for the latte,” the girl says, crossing her legs. “Bring Rachel one tomorrow?” He nods then glances toward Rachel and she feels silly for being caught staring. 

“New student, eh?” Mr. Schue says, with this smile she’s immediately not a fan of. She straightens her spine, pulls her shoulders back and gives him her best smile when she tells him yes. “Go ahead and introduce yourself to the class.”

“Okay.” She turns and faces the classroom. It’s pretty small. Dad talked a bit about how much smaller the classes would be – and how it would be better for her – but it’s still smaller than what she expected. There might not be even twenty people in the room, with her included. “Hello everyone! I’m Rachel Berry. My family just moved here from Ohio.” She waves (stupidly, she thinks after) and smiles.

“Anything else you’d like to share?”

“I think I’m fine.” She sinks into the desk next to Santana and starts fishing through her bag for her notebook, hoping no one is staring at her. She’s not afraid of crowds. She’s sung to plenty, but there’s just something about being the center of attention in an atmosphere like this that she’s not a big fan of. 

“He’s a douche,” Santana says after a moment, when Mr. Schue (whose name is actually Schuester, she notes when she peeks at her schedule) turns his back to the class and starts writing on the board.

“Yeah?” She giggles as Santana shrugs with this little smirk.

“Yep. He just doesn’t know he’s a jerk, which sucks, but whatever.” Santana shrugs and sips her drink, a leather journal dropped onto her desk. “Kind of coffee you like?”

“I don’t drink it often,” she admits. “I prefer tea.”

“Do you like Chai tea?” She nods. She usually drinks traditional black with lemon and honey or Earl Grey, but Chai is fine on occasion. “Hey, Bilal.” The boy looks up from his notebook. “Chai tea for her, okay?”

“Got it,” he says.

“Thanks,” Rachel says. Santana shrugs.

“It’s nothing.”

“Mike, can you pass these out?” Mr. Schuester says, holding up a stack of books. The kid, Asian and limber with his blazer flipped inside out to show it’s silk purple and white polka dotted lining, grabs the books and makes quick work of dishing them out. He gives her a small smile when he puts it in her hand. It makes me feel welcome immediately.

“So,” Mr. Schue says, adjusting his vest, “Our second piece of the semester is Les Liaisons dangereuses or The Dangerous Liaisons by Pierre-Ambroise-François Choderlos de Laclos oft referred to simply as Choderlos de Laclos…”

She flips open her notebook and starts on her notes, grateful that she was able to come in on the start of something new.

…

Rachel’s kind of cute in that whole completely oblivious way. The alternative is knowing too fucking much, which he deals with daily, so when he spots her coming into the lunchroom alone he waves her over. She looks surprised but smiles and heads his way. Fuck, she’s got a nice set of legs. (She probably doesn’t even know it.) He’s adjusting his tie and smoothing out his blazer when Finn comes over with his tray.

“Dude, who’s that?” Finn says over his shoulder.

“New girl.”

“Kind of hot.”

“Yeah. She is,” he says. She’s got on this shy little smile as she walks over, hand wrapped around the strap of her bag. The cafeteria is huge and loud and he thinks she might be a little nervous too.

“Hi!” Rachel says brightly when she finally makes it over.

“Hey. This is my boy, Finn. Finn, this is Rachel.” Finn raises a massive hand to wave and beams at her. The kid has zero game and it’s a wonder they’re still friends, but Finn’s been around since he was six, so he’s probably not going anywhere. Besides, Puck appreciates loyalty and Finn’s got that shit in spades.

“Nice to meet you, Finn,” she says, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear then looking around. “Do you have this lunch period every day?”

Puck nods, “Yeah. Most of the junior class has it. The AP kids at least.”

“Dude, Satan’s coming,” Finn says, in this voice that sounds a little more scared than joking. Santana is evil but Finn’s actually terrified of her, which is fucking hilarious on a good day and still pretty amusing on shitty ones. She enjoys and abuses the knowledge. It’s like watching a T-Rex run from a meerkat. Seriously, she weighs like 100 pounds. He’s betting 20 of those are sitting right on her chest. Her fucking rack…

“Satan?” Rachel asks. He just laughs a little, shrugs his shoulders.

“He’s talking about Santana. Finn’s afraid of her,” he says, nonchalantly. Finn squints his eyes dumbly and is nearly pouting, which – yeah, not cool.

“But she’s so nice,” Rachel says with this happy little shrug and he has to keep himself from laughing because there is nothing nice about his stepsister. He settles on a smirk and a bite of his burger.

“I’m not scared of her,” Finn says finally, still unconvincing. He’s looking at her cross the cafeteria hesitantly. Puck knows he could call bullshit but it’s not really worth it. She grins when she spots him then she sees Rachel and smiles a little. Possibly genuinely, which – yeah, not normal. What’s her deal?

“Yeah you are,” he says, looking at Finn who glares in kind.

“Hey,” Santana says, sliding into the chair next to his. She puts her salad container on the table and takes a long sip of water. “Hi, Finnocence,” she lifts her fingers and does this taunting little wave, grins at him, and, yep, she’s totally pushing out her chest.

He watches Finn swallow hard. You’d think the girl was capable of murder with the way the boy’s spine straightens. Seriously, what’s up with that? He’s going to ask about it later because this is even bad for Finn.

“Sup?” She shakes her head, peels the lid off her salad and drizzles dressing on it. She tilts her head, smiles at Rachel and asks, “How’s your day going?”

Rachel smiles back, tucks that same piece of hair behind her ear and pokes at her pasta. “It’s good,” she says. “I had calculus and choir after we had lit. Mr. Goolsby doesn’t seem so bad and Jesse—“

His gaze flits to Santana. He waits for the giant eye roll but it doesn’t come. She’s just looking all … attentive and shit. Not at all bored or annoyed like usual. Weird. As fuck.

“He’s a prick,” he supplies. Santana doesn’t say anything, just looks at him with this sort of soft smirk and –

“He thinks I should try out for the fall musical,” Rachel says with a shrug.

“Yeah? You sing right?” Santana asks after taking a sip of her water. Rachel nods with this happy smile like she has a million things to say all at once but is like, holding it in. “You should do it.”

…

“Dude, she was like, being nice to someone,” Finn says when they’re heading out of the cafeteria to his car because fuck fourth period.

“Yeah. S’weird,” he says, shrugging and unwrapping a piece of gum.

“She’s probably planning to kill that girl. You should like, watch her.” Puck laughs.

“Calm down. I know she makes you tuck your tail between your legs and shit, but she’s really not bad enough for you to break a sweat over.” Finn looks like he wants to say something. “Your whole forehead was glistening. It was gross. What did she do to you?”

Finn’s face tightens. He’s trying to think of a what he wants to say, which means he’s planning to lie and he’s his boy and he like, loves him (in the bro way) but he’s kind of dumb, so.

“You fucked her didn’t you?” Puck asks when shit starts to click. 

“What? No. I didn’t … why would I— Okay, yeah.”

Puck just stares.

“And apparently she’s not a virgin, which—“

“You really thought she was a virgin?” Finn nods with this embarrassed grin and shrugs his shoulders. “Was it any good?”

“It’s not weird that I fucked your stepsister?”

It probably should be.

…

 

“Fuck, B.” Santana says before her back arches and her hips lift off the bed. Her mouth drops open to expel a sharp gasp and her thighs flex against the shoulders between them. She pushes lightly at one of them, after a moment, to stop the continued pressure against her nerves. She’s fucking sensitive right now.

She’s still panting when Brittany snakes up her body and presses their lips together softly. She hates how much she enjoys these soft kisses, pushes her tongue into the girl’s mouth, tasting herself, just to counter it. Brittany hums against her mouth, still teasing her fingers between Santana’s legs.

“Mph. Not yet.”

She can’t fuck any girls at Archbishop without needing to threaten them to secrecy within an inch of their lives and it’s really not fun fucking someone who’s afraid of you.

So, there’s Brittany, who goes to Carmel Day School with her long legs and clear blue eyes and her ability and willingness to do just about anything. Thank God for flexibility.

She looks as good in Carmel’s maroon and gold uniforms as Santana does in her Archbishop one but it’s not like they ever wear them for long when they’re together. Outside of the fucking she’s nice enough, too. 

“There’s this new girl coming over,” she says as Brittany rolls off of her and onto her back then curls up against her, pressing kisses over her chest and shoulder. She squirms a bit until pretty gets the hint and stops.

“Oh,” she says, “Are you trying to see how many girls you can have sex with in a day?”

“What? No.”

“Oh. I tried that once. I made it to six before I got a cramp in my arms and my tongue. I thought being ambitious would help because, you know, the use of two hands but—“

“Ambidextrous?”

“Yeah that. It didn’t help though.”

“Awesome,” Santana says, her fingers stroking Brittany’s scalp. “That’s not my plan though. She’s new and I’m just like, showing her the ropes or whatever.”

“Sweet. You want me to leave?”

“You can stay if you want. We should probably put clothes on though.”

“I almost forgot. I have to help my sister organize her Little Ponies by mood and color. So, I should get dressed but I should go, too.” Brittany’s a little out there, but she’s sweet and really, really good at everything that counts.

She leans up to kiss Santana again, slow and wet, and Santana groans, worked up all over again. She rolls them over, slides her hand down Brittany’s abs, slips her fingers between the girl’s legs and moves them in a tentative circle.

“I have a few minutes,” Brittany pants, arching up against her.

“Yeah? Good.”

…

 

“Santana,” May’s voice calls through her door, knocking softly like always.

“You can open it, May,” she says, sitting up, tugging her t-shirt down over her stomach. She’s stepping into a pair of H&M trouser sweats when May peeks her head in, a soft smile on her face.

“Your friend … Rachel, I think. She’s in the foyer.”

“I’ll be down in a sec. Can you make me iced coffee?”

“Caramel?”

“Yeah.”

“Of course, hun.”

“Thanks, May.” She finger combs her hair and wraps an elastic around it as she jogs down the stairs.

Rachel’s still wearing her coat, a little hunter green pea coat, when she steps into the foyer. She smiles warmly and fidgets a little bit.

“Hey, you can make yourself comfortable. Here,” she says, holding her hand out. Rachel peels off her jacket. She’s dressed in a bad version of their uniform, a plaid skirt, tights, and a sweater. She raises her eyebrows then shakes her face clear and hangs up the girl’s coat.

“Sorry, I’m so late,” Rachel says, smoothing her hands over her skirt. “My dads like family dinner on Thursdays.”

“You’re fine,” Santana says, shaking her head. The lateness definitely benefited her. “Thirsty?”

“Not really,” Rachel says.

“Cool. C’mon,” Santana says, tipping her head toward the kitchen. Rachel follows closely behind her, quietly humming. May’s pouring milk into the purple reusable cup she usually takes her iced coffee in when they step in. “Thanks,” she says, kissing May’s cheek. She takes a sip and fights the moan in her throat. She kind of needs her coffee. 

“Nice to meet you,” Rachel says to May as they’re heading out the kitchen. May smiles and returns the sentiment.

“Want the tour?” She asks because most people do. She can feel Rachel’s eyes on the side of her face. It’s a little weird, but not uncomfortable. She doesn’t seem to be judging, just curious, like she pays close attention to the people around her.

“Sure,” Rachel says, voice chipper. Santana laughs a little bit because the girl fluctuates between excited and nervous so often. She’s not really used to people being relaxed around her, but she doesn’t really intend to be the Santana she plays at school with this girl. (Well, not yet.) She let her into her home, which says enough even if it’s because her daddy asked her to. Rachel seems pretty okay and it’s not like she has to be best friends with her. She’s just showing her the ropes and, you know, keeping her away from Jesse. Really, she’s sort of curious about her.

She shows her downstairs first: the living room, library, theater and dining room. She’s pretty sure she heard the girl gasp a few times. She blushed as soon as Santana looked at her and tucked her hair behind her ear. 

She knows Rachel’s going to ask before she even says anything. Puck’s playing his guitar in his room, singing along and the girl just kind of stops walking behind her.

“S’Puck,” she says, “You want to go say hi?”

Rachel blushes but nods her head. “He’s good,” she tells her. Santana nods. She’ll give him that. Even if he’s a jerk. 

He’s sitting at the edge of his bed, fingering the strings when she opens his door. He smirks, pats the space next to him and she just sips her drink, tips her head toward Rachel.

“She wanted to hear what that awful noise was. I came to show her the disaster.”

“I didn’t—“ Rachel starts to say then just bites the edge of her lip, narrows her eyes at Santana playfully then looks to Puck. “You’re really good, Noah.”

“I know,” he says, smugly. She rolls her eyes. Yeah, she’s not so bad. There’s at least a little fire in her. “I was just fucking around,” he adds, gesturing to the guitar. “But thanks. I’m headed out.”

“We’ll leave you be then,” Santana says, smirking at him and turning on her heels. She catches him raising his middle finger at her as she pushes the girl out of the room. “He’s his biggest fan,” she tells Rachel as they climb the back staircase.

…

The girl’s perched at the edge of her bed, fingering the hem of her skirt while Santana looks for some music to turn on. She settles on a playlist she uses while she’s studying, fun stuff that’s not too distracting, and plops on her back in the middle of th bed.

“So, how do you like it here?” Santana asks, turning onto her side so she can look at Rachel. She’s got some really pretty hair. Super shiny. It’s just those clothes … 

“Um. It’s okay, I guess. No one’s really been mean, which is a plus since everyone in Ohio basically ha— It’s just better,” she says quickly. She clears her throat a bit and rubs at her shoulder. The girl can talk really fast. Rachel’s cheeks are red again and she’s staring at the silver accent wall. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, um…”

“You’re fine.” Santana says because, seriously, the girl’s going to have to like, curb her nerves. It’s a little exhausting. “What’s up?”

“It’s nothing. I just wasn’t very well liked at my old school.”

“Oh.”

“See, now I’ve made things awkward.” This is usually where she’d be finding an excuse to like, get the girl to leave but she doesn’t really want her to go and she’s a little curious now. Like, Rachel’s a little … intense and a ball of nerves and her wardrobe could use Santana’s help, but she’s pretty sure the girl was going to say that people hated her, which isn’t really the vibe she gets from her and she’s pretty well versed in hating people. 

“You didn’t. S’cool. Really. You went to school with a bunch of losers then?”

“I was the loser,” Rachel says, a little too much self-loathing in her voice for Santana’s comfort. Rachel’s obviously trying to not look, well, sad or whatever, but failing. “Show choir, gay dads and Jewish features aren’t really assets in Middle America.”

“Sucks,” she says because she’s not a therapist. “You seem pretty cool to me. Don’t worry about it. People at McKinley are easily managed.” 

(Not exactly the truth but the girl shouldn’t like, come into school expecting to be hated. 

Besides, Santana has pull and something tells her they might get along just fine.)

“Thanks. You’ve been really nice.” She looks away from the wall to where Santana’s sprawled out again, one arm behind her head. “I know my fathers asked you to show me around,” she pauses and picks at piece of lint on her tights. “You really don’t have to keep me around. I can manage on my own,” the girl tells her, voice a little stronger than Santana’s heard it before. 

“You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want you to be,” she says with a shrug. It sounds a little bitchy, but whatever, it gets the point across. “Now let’s stop with the pity party. You watch Jersey Shore?”

“I’ve never seen it.”

“You’re in luck.”

...

“Could you fucking knock?” Santana hisses when he steps into her room, pushes the door closed behind him.

“No,” he says laughing. He couldn’t give a fuck less about her privacy, really. She rolls her eyes, looks at him then the screen of her Macbook and shuts it before putting it on the floor. “Porn?”

“No, you bastard.”

“Whatever. You’re doing something freaky on that thing since you won’t let anyone near it.” She doesn’t answer, just rolls her eyes, and makes a noise of disgust when he drops down onto her mattress. “So, you fucked Finn?” 

That wasn’t supposed to get a reaction but she freezes up for just a moment then fixes him with an amused look before she starts to laugh. 

“That big mouthed baby,” she breathes, “Two minutes doesn’t count.”

He shrugs. He sort of expected that.

“So, this new girl…”

“What about her?”

“You’re totally trying to fuck her.”

She looks genuinely shocked when she says, “What?”

“No?”

“No.”

“Should be. Have you seen her legs? I’d fucking—“

“Save it. I don’t need the details of your fantasies.”

“I could tell you a few.” She rolls her eyes. He runs his fingers up her calf, “She’s definitely a virgin.”

“Obviously,” she says with this look he hates, like he’s an idiot or something. He’s not. She kicks at his ankle when his palm slides up between her thighs and rolls away from him. “She’s probably never even kissed anyone.”

“Too bad. That mouth would probably feel awesome wrapped around my—“

“That’ll never happen,” she says seriously. Fuck her. He’s got game. He’s positive he could bag that chick. She probably just needs a little pointed attention and … 

“Wanna bet?”

“No. There’s nothing you have that I want.”

“There’s a lot I can do for you.” And fuck if he hasn’t wanted to since he was fourteen, before his mother decided to go off and marry Arias Lopez and ruin his life.

“Tina doesn’t seem to think so.”

He just laughs and wraps his finger around her ankle, slides his hand up under her sweats until he’s gripping the back of her knee and bending it toward her chest. He hears the hitch in her breath. He pulls his hand out then runs his palm along her stomach.

“You know you could stop asking people about me and find out.”

She pushes at his shoulder until he’s laid out on his back and straddles him. Fuck, she looks hot with her hair falling down around her like that. There’s this look in her eyes and her bottom lip is wedged between her teeth. He just wants to…

“If I wanted to find out,” she says, hand covering his under her shirt, knees digging deeper into the mattress. He can feel her warmth on his stomach. She smirks and flips her hair over her shoulder, flexes her thighs against his sides as she locks eyes with him. She drags his hand from under her shirt and threads their fingers together then leans down so her lips are hovering dangerously close. If he just lifts his head and laces his fingers in her hair … 

“I would.”

She rolls off of him then, stands and tugs her hair into a bun with the tie wrapped around her wrist.

“You’re a fucking tease.” She blows a kiss over her shoulder, smirks when he yanks her door open. He hears her call out, “Love you too,” when he slams the door behind him. 

He kind of hates her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a bet.

She’s been at McKinley for a month and she’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for it all to come crashing down. It’s just … well; she’s not sure why a girl like Santana would ever…

Santana is intimidating. 

And indisputably gorgeous and more popular than Rachel even considered possible. She’s student body president, captain of the volleyball team and the managing editor of the student paper, _The McKinley Tribune_. People stare and whisper and wonder at and about her every move and that curiosity doesn’t just dwell in the halls of McKinley. She hears it out and round town, too. Everyone has thoughts about the Lopez family, especially the daughter. 

They’re not supposed to be friends. Santana lives in a McMansion and drives a $90,000 car and the structure of her home life, well; it really isn’t structured at all. 

If she were in Ohio, Rachel _knows_ Santana would be the head cheerleader with impeccable grades, misguided morals, and a string of boyfriends, who picked on her mercilessly, but here, she’s not. 

Instead, she’s the girl who makes sure there’s a Chai tea on her desk every morning in Lit and Comp and someone for her to sit with at lunch (even if it’s not Santana – Mike, Puck and Finn are nice, too). It’s nice but she can’t pretend she’s not waiting for Santana (or any of the others) to realize that she doesn’t fit, because she’s not blind. Santana isn’t nice to everyone (or anyone for that matter) and it still doesn’t make sense that she’s the exception but – 

“Rach,” Santana says, under her breath, tilting her head toward Ms. Holliday, their AP Comparative World Politics teacher. She’s back to scribbling in the leather notebook she carries around in no time like she didn’t just save Rachel’s ass.

“Ms. Berry?” This really shouldn’t be distracting her. She puts on her best smile, straightens in her desk and asks Ms. Holliday to please repeat the question. “I thought you’d never ask.” 

“You okay?” Santana asks later when they’re in the second floor restroom, her fingers combing through her hair. 

“Yeah. I’m fine.” 

“You have rehearsal tonight?” She nods and sits up on the sill of the sink while Santana reapplies her mascara. “Cool. We have a game at Carmel and then a few of us are going to Jimmy’s. What time is rehearsal over?” 

“Eight.” 

“Good shit. I’ll scoop you at like 8:15.” 

…

He hasn’t heard from his mom since she called the last time and he wishes he could say he didn’t care, but he can’t fucking get online without seeing her picture at some stupid ass event, listed in the headline as a guest or go to the store without seeing her on the cover of some bullshit magazine. 

She’s no stranger to celebrity. She doesn’t do anything worth celebrating, just shows her face and drops her name and that’s enough because she’s the heiress to some big fortune he doesn’t think she’ll ever get because his grandfather hates her for getting with some “regular” guy and having him and then fucking up again and having his sister. She’s gone though, somewhere in Colorado living a normal life with her father. There was a big custody battle all over the news and all that he wondered when it was over was why his dad hadn’t fought for him. 

As far as he’s concerned, May’s his only family. And there’s Santana, but he doesn’t know what to call her at all because she’s not his fucking sister. 

“Dude,” Finn says, bumping his shoulder and biting into a Twizzler – Red Vines are better – then pointing toward the court. He didn’t have anything better to do so he’s at Santana’s game. He could give a fuck about volleyball, really, but his rugby season hasn’t started yet and a bunch of chicks with awesome legs in tiny ass shorts? He’s got no complaints. Plus, it’s keeping his mind off the picture he saw of his mom earlier today when they stopped at 7-11.

“What?” 

“She’s good,” Finn says and like, Puck doesn’t have to actually look at the court because he knows who he’s talking about and she is. Santana’s led them to a championship every single year she’s played. She’s fucking quick on her feet and mean as hell on the court. It’s kind of hot actually. She fucking broke this chick’s nose with a spike last season. 

She played basketball and cheered in middle school, but she just kind of took to the game when they started McKinley. He’s still not sure why she didn’t go the cheerleader route. It’d suit her, but he doesn’t ask and he thinks she likes getting to take out her frustrations on bitchy chicks from other schools. 

“Duh.” 

“I mean, like, really good.” He just stares at Finn and snatches a Twizzler out of the bag. 

“You already tapped it. You can stop sweating her,” he says. Finn groans and tugs at his collar. Really, he just says some shit to fuck with him. 

Santana spikes for the game point and pulls this little smirk when they win. No jumping up and down or being loud like the rest of the team, just a little smirk and a roll of her shoulders, like she knew this was coming. He kind of loves how smug she is. 

She gives him an amused expression and leans her head back when she sees him in the parking lot after the game. She’s showered. Her hairs up in a bun and curly like it gets when it’s wet. She’s wearing black jeans and a denim shirt with her duffle slung over her shoulder.

“Came to scam?” She asks and he just rolls his eyes, slings an arm around her shoulder and pulls her in. She makes a noise but brings her arm around his middle and kind of hugs him then peels off her duffle and throws it at his chest. “Be useful, maybe?”

“Whatever. Where’d you park?” 

“Don’t act like you don’t see Biggie,” she says, tilting her head toward her black Range Rover. He doesn’t check out her ass when she starts walking in front of him. Not at all. 

“Where you going?” 

“To get Britt then pick up Rachel from rehearsal, so we can get some food. I’m fucking starving.” 

“Yeah? Good game, loser.” 

“Of course it was, moron. Thanks,” she says, taking her bag from him and tossing it into her trunk. “Where you going?”

“Dunno. Finn had to go to some family thing with Kurt.”

“You’re not fucking some poor girl tonight?”

“Fuck you.”

“You wish,” she says, wetting her lips and smoothing her ponytail. She climbs into the driver’s seat but doesn’t close the door, just sits with her legs facing out, holding her phone. “We’ll be at Jimmy’s, if you don’t find something to put your dick in.” 

“If I wanted something to put my dick in –“

“I know. I know. You’d be fucking some girl right now. Blah, blah, blah,” she rolls her eyes like she knows him or something. He kind of can’t stand her sometimes. 

“Jealous?”

“Not hardly. Anyway, I have to go all the way to Carmel, so.” 

“I might come join you and your little entourage.” 

She just smirks, blows him a kiss and slams the door. 

… 

She’s Millie Dillmount and it feels good to finally have the lead role she’s been craving. With Jesse’s prodding and Santana’s encouragement and her fathers’ not so accidental repetitive playing of "Not For The Life of Me", she decided to go for it. She hadn’t expected the lead; it wasn’t like she hadn’t been passed over for less talented people back in Lima, but earning it? She’s never felt anything better. 

Their director, Shelby Corcoran, is tough as nails and full of high expectations but she knows she can meet them and starring opposite Jesse doesn’t hurt. He’s handsome and charming and talented. And his voice on "What Do I Need With Love?" has never failed to put a flush in her cheeks. 

She’s sitting on the edge of the stage sipping her water when he slips into the space next to her and slings an arm around her shoulder. She shoots him a look through her peripheral but can’t help the smile that appears on her face when he says, “Millie, you’re simply divine.” 

“Seriously,” he says, bumping her body with his when she rolls her eyes. 

“Thanks, Jesse.” She pulls her hand down before she can push her hair behind her ear. Santana’s teased her about the habit enough and she certainly doesn’t want to be “giving up all her cards” or whatever Santana claims the habit does. 

“How am I doing?” Jesse asks with this little smirk on his face like he’s asking more than one question: one obvious and the other just as obvious, just not something she’s willing to answer. He wants to know how he’s doing with _her_. She keeps in the sigh that’s waiting and shakes her head at him choosing to acknowledge only the first.

“Lovely?” 

“You don’t sound so sure. I need to know if I’m stellar or mesmerizing.” 

“I think lovely’ll do, Jesse.” She shrugs. 

“I guess I’ll just have to work harder. This has never happened before. Are you sure about your assessment?” She nods, cheeks hinting at pink and slips off the stage. 

Santana’s waiting on the curb near the theatre when Jesse walks her out, arm draped over her shoulder telling some joke that isn’t really funny but she’s laughing. He kisses her cheek then rubs the spot with his thumb. Rachel ducks from under his arm and pushes at his chest lightly. He smiles, lets out a little laugh, throws his hands up in surrender and says, “I couldn’t help myself.” 

She rolls her eyes then narrows them at him but her skin his buzzing as she waves goodbye. Santana’s smirking when she slides onto the soft leather smoothing her skirt down, but her eyes are doing something else

“Hi!” A voice sings from the back seat and then there’s a head fitted between the gap in the seats smiling. “I’m Brittany. You’re Rachel, right?”

She nods and returns the smile then extends her hand. “Yes. Rachel Berry.” 

“Awesome,” the girl says, then looks at Santana. “She’s pretty.”

Santana laughs a little and mumbles, “Yeah. She is.” 

“Thanks,” she mutters. She’s sure she’s blushing now, so she lets her hair fall in her face when she puts her bag on the floor. 

“Rach, this is Brittany. She goes to Carmel Day. S’like far as fuck away. They’re just as annoying as the people at McKinley,” she shrugs then glosses her lips when they catch a red light. 

“No one’s annoying,” Brittany says. 

“You just like everyone,” Santana says like it’s a fact. Brittany just shrugs and leans back in her seat, tells Santana to cut up the radio and stop being a grump. Santana doesn’t snap back like Rachel expects. It’s usually how things go with other people. “Done. How was rehearsal?”

“It was good,” Rachel says. They’re about two weeks into things and everything is running as smoothly as it can. She’s got most of her lines down and really she’s just worried about the rest of the cast. 

“Good shit,” Santana says, tapping the steering wheel to the beat of whatever that is on the radio. She’s not really into rap, so she’s not at all sure who sings this but Brittany seems to know it. Rachel can hear her hands slapping against her thighs and she hums with the beat. 

She feels like she should feel out of place but she doesn’t. Most of the time she’s spent with Santana has been one on one save for lunches and class, but it’s nice to feel like she’s apart of something. 

...

“Do you just want my fries?” Santana asks, because Brittany’s eaten most of them. If they grab the same one Brittany just smiles, tugs a little and eats it. It’s not like she’s upset because they’re just fries but she can just have them if it’s going to be a battle to the ketchup, y’know?

“No.” Brittany shakes her head rapidly. “They’ll totally suck if you give them to me. Food is way better when it belongs to someone else.” 

Brittany shrugs her shoulders, smiles this little smile then reaches to Rachel’s plate and takes a piece of the girl’s pita bread and dips it in hummus. Mike laughs against her shoulder and she plucks him. 

“Okay, Britt,” she says, because arguing with the girl isn’t really worth it and it sort of makes sense. Maybe. Whatever. “Having fun?” 

“I am,” Rachel says, lifting her head. She’s been quiet, which isn’t really new when they’re around people but Santana doesn’t like it. She acts like she’s still nervous or something, which is both cute and annoying because, seriously, she wouldn’t invite the girl places if she wasn’t welcome. She doesn’t work like that. She honestly tolerates the girl more than most of the people she normally keeps company with. 

“Yeah?” Rachel nods, laughs a bit, rolling her eyes, then sips her drink and shrugs one shoulder and says, “Promise.” She’s sort of adorable, which … 

“Scoot over,” Puck says, bumping his knee against her thigh. She rolls her eyes, slides over to let him into the booth. He peels off this shawl collared toggle sweater and drops it on her lap like an asshole. She drops it on the floor and he groans, kicks at her ankle with his Clarks before he takes a seat and snatches a fry. 

“Why did I invite you here again?” 

“Because you love me.” 

She doesn’t respond, just gives him a look and tries not to feel weird about the way Rachel’s looking at the two of them. Rachel’s head ducks when she looks at her, then she reaches for her water and sips while Brittany talks to her about something Santana’s sure she’s not really interested in. Whatever.

“Not out getting your dick wet, I see,” she says in a whisper when she tips her head onto Puck’s shoulder. His hand drops onto her knee and squeezes. He just makes this little grunt noise like he’s amused and she pokes out her bottom lip. “Sucks.” 

She’s sure he’s about to say something disgusting but Mike comes back from the bathroom and some idiot who plays rugby with the both of them is behind him. She rolls her eyes, sits up straight and sips her drink, watches as Rachel pays actual attention to what Brittany’s saying. Something about gummi bears, drugs and like, Swedish fish. She just pops a fry into her mouth and sends Matt a text then starts laughing at something Mike says about the shape of Puck’s head.

“Have you had sex with her?” Brittany asks when they pull away from Rachel’s house later that evening. She’s tired and sore from the game, full of way too much food and soda and spent from laughing so damn much. Sometimes the people she lets hang around her don’t suck. She’s pretty sure her face looks as blank as her head though.

“What?”

“Rachel. You. Sex. Have you had it? Duh.” 

“Um. No? Why would I?”

“She’s hot. Like, I’d totally bend her over something if we were closer but she doesn’t know me, so it would be weird and we don’t have a safe word so—“ 

“Stop.”

“Okay, but you should definitely consider it or like, give me her number so we can become closer. How do you think she feels about the word ‘pickle’?” 

“You wanna make out?” She asks because this conversation is going nowhere. 

“Totally.” 

“Good,” she says before pulling onto Xavier Road and rolling through her gates once they’ve reached the top of the hill. They don’t even get out, she just tells Britt to let her seat down, then straddles the girl and tries to kiss that feeling out of her gut. 

…

He smells her perfume before he hears Santana say, “Does he know you’re here?” 

He’s just getting home from school and unbuttoning his blazer in the kitchen after dropping his bag by the door and then he just stops. He has to remind himself to breathe. He just stands there and squeezes his eyes shut, fingers stilled on the last button. He fucking knows but he doesn’t want to be right. 

He can hear her hesitate. There’s a slight shift in the air and he can just see the whole thing playing out in his head as he stands there with his eyes on the state-of-the-art refrigerator with that single picture of him, May and Santana, the only “homey” thing about the place. 

He imagines the guilt on her face and the sneer on Santana’s and he really doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry. He just lets his hands fall away from his uniform. God, he fucking …

“No,” she says finally. “And I’d rather keep it that way.” 

“Of course you would,” Santana says. He knows she’s shaking her head with that look that makes his blood boil when it’s directed at him, arms crossed over her chest. He can tell it just from the tone of her voice. She sounds like she’s ready to fight and … “Too bad though,” she says. “He’s in the kitchen.” 

He sees her shrug as he rounds the corner. He doesn’t really remember when he started moving his feet toward the living room, but he’s there now. Santana looks away from his mom and then at him with a sympathetic frown before she takes in a breath and combs her fingers through her hair. It’s almost insane how easy she slips back into looking haughty. She doesn’t say anything more, just spins on her heels with her bag over her shoulder and heads up the stairs. She doesn’t look back. He’s grateful. 

“Noah,” his mom says after swiping a hand over her forehead. He shakes his head, jaw tightening, fist flexing in the pocket of his grey slacks. 

“Don’t.” His fingers slide over his head, back and forth as his eyes squeeze shut. 

“Honey, I was just—“ 

“Going to slip out of here without even saying hello? Yeah, that’s fucking rich, Elaine.” 

She lets out a slow breath and lowers the Damier duffle from her shoulder to the floor. 

“Watch your mouth, Noah.”

“You don’t get to make the rules, okay? You just don’t.” 

Her jaw flexes and her mouth opens and closes a few times before she just sighs and looks at him, really looks at him, and he realizes he doesn’t care about that little glint of hurt in her eyes because he carries that expression beneath everything else daily. She doesn’t get to come in and put that on him. He’s not the bad guy. 

“Lock the door, okay? May’s off.”

He looks at her, nostrils flaring, before taking the stairs. He looks back from the top of the stairs and sees her picking up her bag. He doesn’t wait to see her leave. 

“Are you…” Santana stops talking when he glares at her. She sucks in a breath, shifts so her weight is on one hip and keeps her arms crossed. He can’t really read her facial expression but her eyes are soft and her lips are still parted. He just turns his back to her and pulls his shirt over his head, flings it toward his desk chair then steps out of his slacks. 

“You okay?”

“M’fine.” 

“Really?”

“That’s what I said, right?” He snaps. She scoffs with a smirk and shakes her head. He feels her knee dip into his mattress and he just pushes himself a little deeper into his pillows. 

“We don’t …” Her hands move over his shoulders, massaging. “It just … It doesn’t matter, Puck. You know?” 

He doesn’t respond, just keeps his eyes closed and tries to fight enjoying how easily her hands relax him. She drags her fingers up his spine and leans over him, forearms pressing against his back. 

“We’re already better than either of them will be,” she says sitting up on her knees more to reach his left side. He groans low when she kneads the muscles there and he expects her to laugh at him, but she doesn’t. She just keeps moving her hands over his skin until he’s as relaxed as he can be. 

“We’re fine,” she says after her lips touch right between his shoulder blades. “We’re fine.”

He’s not sure which of them she’s trying to convince. 

…

Rachel tells her that her fathers want her to come over for dinner next Thursday during their lunch period. She’s going between eating her salad, listening to Rachel talk about rehearsals and texting Mike just to fuck with him while he’s in class. He’s in an IB chemistry class on Thursday’s that keeps him from lunch with the rest of them and sometimes she likes to be a distraction. 

Not wearing any, she texts with a small smirk then looks back up at Rachel. The girl hasn’t actually stopped talking about how she’s having a hard time making some song called "Gimme Gimme" her own. She doesn’t know the song but she’s heard the girl sing briefly when she caught her belting in the passenger seat the other day after she’d run back in the house to get her wallet. She figures she can make it her own. She’s just nervous. 

_Shit. Really?_ She gets back. 

“Jesse wants me to come over to his place and rehearse this weekend,” Rachel says, which gets her attention because – no. 

“Oh? I thought you could spend the night Friday and we’d go shopping on Saturday.” 

“Really?” 

__

None, baby. 

You want to skip fifth?

Yeah. I need a favor, actually.

Funny. I do too. 

We’ll help each other out. Meet you at your car?

Yeah. See ya. 

“Huh?”

“You said you wanted me to spend the night Friday.”

“Oh. Yeah, totally,” she says before tipping back her water. She pushes her hair over her shoulder and glares at the smirk Puck is giving her from a few tables over. She waves at Finn who blushes and Rachel looks over her shoulder to see where her attention is. 

“You like Finn?” Rachel asks innocently. Santana mashes her own lips together then takes a quick sip of water before she shakes her head instead of sneering.

“Nope. Not my type,” she says. 

“He’s kind of cute.”

“He’s an oaf,” she says. This girl’s taste is going to need work.

… 

It’s probably the worst time ever to say, “You should date Rachel,” to Mike. 

Actually, no, it _is_ the worst time ever, when her hand is wrapped around his cock in the backseat of his Beemer. She doesn’t care much either way. They both needed favors. This is hers. 

He groans and rocks into her hand a little bit when she stills it. 

“Wh-what?” 

“You should date Rachel. You owe me a favor.” 

“Shit, San,” he bites out when she twists her wrist and sucks on his pulse point. 

“You gonna do it?” She breathes into his ear.

“Are you going to keep going because I’m like … fuck. Okay. Yes.”

So, she sets her up with Mike. 

...

Mike Chang asks Rachel out on Wednesday. 

He offers to carry the massive world politics text she has tucked under her arm and leans against the locker next to hers as she puts it away. Then he’s straightening his inside-out blazer, hands smoothing over silk and polka dots, and asking if can take her out on Friday night. He’s charming and handsome and doing this thing with his eyebrows that makes it hard to say no. She really doesn’t have a reason to turn down his offer, so she accepts and lets him walk her to the auditorium for rehearsals. 

He takes her out Friday night. They go to dinner at Jimmy’s and then bowling afterward. He’s nice and funny and energetic and really good company but most of all he’s into her. He beats her during the first game and she beats him (fairly, she’s certain) the second time. All in all, she has a good time and it’s not really her first date, but it’s the first one she’s truly enjoyed and she looks forward to the movie he texts her about taking her to next week.

She gets to Santana’s a little later than expected. She’s sleeping over for the first time and they’re going to the mall in the morning because Santana thinks Rachel needs to, which might not be completely untrue. Especially if she wants to fit in with the style in Westbrook or at least evolve her own as Santana put it. 

May sends her straight up after a quick hug and she knocks twice then hears Santana call for her to come in. She steps out of her shoes and peels off her coat, hangs it over the chair Santana always puts things on. She can’t seem to stop smiling but she’s not really trying to either.

“Hey,” she says, running her hands over her skirt. Santana’s room is honestly massive and sort of dark, but it doesn’t feel moody just, well, it’s very Santana.

“Hey,” Santana says with a smile. She’s sitting with one knee pulled up toward her chest, the other folded, in tiny blue shorts and a tank top on the rusty red comforter of her bed, which is massive, too. “You can like, change if you want.” 

She figures it’s a good idea and she’d like to get comfy and not have to worry about it later, so she takes her sleep things out of her bag and heads to Santana’s bathroom. She slips into a pair of red cotton shorts and a small white tee with a heart in the middle then makes herself comfortable on Santana’s bed after putting her things away. 

“How was it?” Santana asks, pointing a tiny remote at the dock on her nightstand to turn down the volume. 

Rachel smiles. “It was good. We went to the diner and then cosmic bowling. He’s really sweet.” 

“Yeah, he is. You kick his ass?” Santana grins.

“Second time,” Rachel says, shrugging one shoulder and occupying her hands with the end of her shirt. Santana kicks at her ankle lightly and gives her this tiny smirk like she’s proud. It shouldn’t make Rachel feel even better about winning but it does. 

“Did you guys make out?” Santana asks as she paints her nails this pretty shade of red, there’s little flecks of glitter in it. Rachel feels her cheeks warm as she shakes her head, mumbles a ‘no’ that’s barely audible. “Why not?”

She could lie but there’s really no point. Anyway, Santana is her friend.

“I’ve never kissed anyone before.” 

She thinks Santana’s trying to look surprised but she’s not doing a good job so she tells her so. 

“Yeah?” Santana asks with this small amused smile that Rachel’s only seen her use at home.

“Yes, Santana,” she says, the red in her cheeks there for a different reason all together. “You looked two seconds from yelling, ‘I knew it!’” She’s teasing and not really all that offended. Santana just gives her a probing look that she can’t read. 

“We can change that.” 

Yes. 

“What?”

“Just c’mere,” Santana says, capping the polish and sitting up on her knees, the shorts she’s wearing riding up her thighs. She scoots closer and Santana pats her hip and says, “Up.”

“I’m not gay,” she says dumbly.

Santana laughs. 

“I’m not gay either. Just c’mere.” She does. Their thighs touch, Santana’s skin warm and soft against hers. “I’m not gay,” Santana says again, “But I am your friend and you should get a little practice before you kiss Chang.” 

She just nods because she doesn’t know what to say to that. Santana smiles at her, sweeps a thumb over the apple of her cheek and leans in. Her lips are right there, so close, but still not pressed against hers like she wants them. (God, she didn’t know she wanted them.) She sucks in a breath of sweet air and closes her eyes to Santana’s. 

“C’mon,” Santana whispers, lips ghosting against hers. 

She feels herself lean in then. 

They’re just like that for a moment, lips pressed together solidly, lipgloss sticking and the air between them shared until Santana’s lips start teasing at hers just so. Then there’s a hand in her hair, fingers stroking her scalp in a way that feels _so good_. 

Santana pulls away after a moment, an expression Rachel can’t decipher on her face. Her fingers curl around Santana’s shoulder, nails barely digging in. She’s pulling and Santana’s leaning and – 

Santana licks at the seam of her lips after nipping at her teasingly for what feels like forever and her lips part, inviting. Santana’s tongue still doesn’t meet hers; instead, the girl presses soft kisses into her upper lip and then takes her bottom one between her own and sucks in a way that makes her toes curl and her body press impossibly closer. 

Her hand slides down the girl’s arm and her nails dig into warm skin when teeth tug her lip just hard enough. There’s a whimper teasing the tip of her tongue until Santana’s pushes into her mouth, strokes at the roof of it and curls her tongue around hers. 

She doesn’t have any time to wonder if she’s doing this right because, before she knows it, her back is against the mattress and her head against a pillow, Santana’s tongue massaging hers. Rachel’s fingers squeeze the soft but solid muscle of Santana’s bicep. She tells herself not to moan but that sound comes and… 

Santana’s hand stills where it’s stroking the flesh of her abdomen and the thigh pressed solidly against her center moves back an inch. All she can see is black until Santana flips her hair off her face, smirks down at her and swipes Rachel’s bottom lip with her thumb. 

“Yeah. I think you’ll be good to go.” 

She doesn’t say anything for a minute because she can’t. She’s not sure what just happened – well, she is: 

Santana kissed her. 

She kissed Santana. 

Her chest is hot when she touches her palm there and she shifts, still lying against the girl’s pillows and wonders if Santana can tell she’s just a little (really) aroused.

Santana’s already sitting Indian-style, like nothing happened, frowning at the smudging of her nails and reaching for the remote to turn something on. 

“Thanks,” she finally says, immediately feeling like an idiot. 

“That’s what friends are for,” Santana replies, smirking. “Maybe later I can teach you the bases.” She shrugs; her eyes narrowed playfully, a grin on her lips then twists a tie around her hair leaving a messy bun in its’ wake. Santana’s teasing, sure, but – 

She presses her fingertips to her swollen lips when Santana’s back is turned back to the TV. The girl’s laughing at an old episode of Fresh Prince and reaching for the water bottle on her nightstand. 

“You ever seen this one before?” She asks, tipping her head back so she’s looking at Rachel upside down. 

“Yeah. A few times,” she replies, shifting so that she’s lying on her stomach. Santana reaches for a strand of Rachel’s hair, twists it around her fingers for a moment then lets it slip between them. 

The way Santana acts like it’s no big deal makes the rest of the night easy. 

She was just being a friend. 

Helping out. 

Practice. 

It’s fine. 

Really it is. 

(Her fingers reach for her lips again before she falls asleep.)

...

She spent entirely too much time in the shower last night. She was near pruning by the time she got out but she also had two more orgasms under her belt and a fucking smile on her face, so. Whatever. Making out – with someone inexperienced (well, she didn’t feel too inexperienced, actually) – should not have her that turned on but she hasn’t gotten any in like a week. That’s all. 

She runs longer than normal because she’s tense and still horny and she sets a reminder in her phone to text Matt so she can work out some kinks after they go shopping. 

Rachel’s sleeping, turned on her side with her legs pulled up, when she finally gets up to her room with a piece of mango between her fingers. She tilts her head to stretch her neck, lets out a little groan at the tightness in her shoulders, the burn in her thighs worth it. 

“Where’d you go?” She maybe jumps a little. 

“You’re up,” she says. Rachel rolls her eyes and says ‘duh’ then repeats her question. “I go running in the morning.”

Rachel picks up her cell and says, “It’s 6:30.”

“Right. You should be sleeping.” The girl just shrugs and sits up, pushes her back against the headboard and pulls her knees to her chest, then rests her chin on folded arms. Her hair is messy and her cheeks are a little pink. She’s kind of cute.

“I wake up at 6:00 every day to do my elliptical and practice scales.” Of course she does. Santana laughs and takes a bite of the mango. Fuck, it’s good. She moans a little and, god, Rachel is funny. She makes this little face at the sound and the corner of her mouth pulls up like she has something to say about it. 

“This shit is fucking— it’s tasty. Here.” She holds out the other half of the mango and Rachel looks at it for a second before taking it. She nibbles at it (it’s tiny, so that’s silly) then smiles. 

“It’s good.”

“Duh.” She toes off her shoes and pushes the purple shorts off her hips. Rachel makes a noise. “Oh, God. Tell me you’ve seen a naked girl before.” 

“I—I have but … god, Santana. A warning next time, please?”

Santana rolls her eyes and tugs the elastic out of her hair as she heads for the bathroom. She cuts the shower on, wiggles her fingers under the stream to check the temperature, even though she knows the knobs are angled correctly, then pulls the white sports bra off and drops it into the laundry basket. 

“Santana!” Rachel says in this little urgent voice, covering her eyes when she steps back into her room. It’s practically a yelp and she laughs immediately. 

“Oh my god. You can’t be serious,” she teases, grabbing her towel off the back of the door. “They’re just boobs. 34C if you were wondering.” 

“I wasn’t,” Rachel says. 

“Everyone else is.” Rachel drops her hand just to roll her eyes. Santana grins at her and slips back into the bathroom. 

Rachel’s sleeping again, turned over on her belly with one knee pulled up when Santana gets out of the shower. She just steps into a pair of green boyshorts and pulls on a tank top before slipping back into bed and cutting on the TV. She drifts off halfway into an episode of Fresh Prince and wakes up a few hours later to an arm slung over her middle. 

Puck’s swinging her door open just as she’s moving it away and he just grins and makes a noise in his throat before saying, “May’s starting on breakfast. She said chick’s got like, some special needs or some shit when it comes to food and can’t remember if she’s vegetarian or vegan. All I got from that is she’s lame because who the fuck doesn’t eat bacon?” 

Santana rolls her eyes and pushes the covers off her body, plants her feet on the dark flooring and says, “Tell her she’s vegan, moron.” 

She can feel his eyes on her ass when he says, “Alright, bitch. Hurry the fuck up. I’m not eating cold food because of you.” 

“You don’t have to fucking wait for me,” she says, scratching at her belly, neck stretching. 

“Just hurry it up, dumbass.” 

Her ‘fuck you’ falls on deaf ears because she can hear him padding down the stairs as she clicks on her dock, turns it down as soon as it cuts on and reaches across the mattress to shake Rachel’s shoulder. 

“Get up, sleepyhead,” she says. Rachel just mewls and rolls onto her back; arms and legs sticking out like the points of a star. She blinks cutely a few times then lets out this long little breath that makes her bottom lip rattle. She’s kind of really pretty in the morning, apparently, which – whatever. 

“Hi,” Rachel says, rubbing her cheek. 

“Hey,” Santana says. “May’s cooking breakfast now, so hop in the shower and we’ll get out of here after we eat.” 

Rachel just nods and licks her lips and pushes the covers away completely. Santana doesn’t hang around to see if she gets up. Instead, she heads for her closet. The light flicks on as soon as her foot presses down and she looks around for a moment. Her closet is kind of a thing of wonder. 

She stands on her tiptoes to reach into the highest jean-filled cubby for a pair of dark skinnies then flips through her sweaters and pulls out a crème sequined Stella McCartney cardigan. It’s a little much for shopping, well, no, if she were someone else, it would be a bit much but she grabs a v-neck to dress it down anyway. 

She sprays on perfume when she’s in her jeans and green bra then pulls the top over her head and the cardigan over her arms and checks herself out, finger combing her hair and pushing the diamond studs her dad surprised her with a few weeks ago into her ears. She snaps on the matching tennis bracelet just because and settles on a pair of navy blue canvas Louboutin oxfords because they’ll be easier to slip out of when she’s trying things on. 

Rachel’s pulling her skirt up over her hips when she gets back into her bedroom and like, okay, yeah, Rachel sort of maybe has a nice rack and finding the girl new clothes seems even more imperative because who knew? 

She’s pretty sure she was staring at the girl’s tits but her eyes move to her face when Rachel says, “I’m pretty sure I saw that in actual _VOGUE_.”

She laughs because – what? 

“As opposed to…?”

“I just didn’t know people wore those things in real life.”

She kind of smirks, tilts her head to the side and says, “And this is why I’m taking you shopping because I didn’t know people wore _that_ past age 8.” 

Rachel narrows her eyes as she adjusts her blouse and Santana shrugs one shoulder. She’s just being honest.

“You’re kind of rude sometimes.”

“All the time, really,” she says. “Let’s go.” 

Rachel pushes at her shoulder, tells her, “Well you _do_ look nice.”

“Of course I do. You will too – after today.” 

“You’re a bitch,” Rachel says and then looks immediately sorry for saying it out loud, like maybe she’s never said that to anyone before. Santana laughs, pretty hard actually, and slings an arm around the girl’s shoulder. 

“You’re getting there too. S’kinda awesome. Now c’mon so we can eat.” 

…

“Thanks,” Puck says. 

He kisses May’s cheek because she’s fucking awesome and sometimes he needs to let her know it, y’know? She just pats his cheek, gently, and smiles, tells him to enjoy the food with his friends. He says he will and carries the tray of stuff she’s made for him and the guys to the billiard room across from the theater downstairs. 

Mike’s sitting in one of the club chairs playing with his phone while Sam and Finn argue over something Puck figures is fucking stupid. He sets the tray down on the bar and slides it away from Finn’s grabby ass hands. 

“Hold your fucking horses.”

“Dude.”

He glares. “You can wait.”

Finn frowns like a fucking child and stuffs his hand in his pocket and Puck doesn’t really care. He just rounds the bar and pulls out the scotch. Mike grins from his seat and comes over, still holding his phone and leans up against it. 

“Get the snifters,” Puck says, uncapping the single malt. Mike reaches up and easily reaches the storage rack above them, sets four of the glasses in front of Puck and rounds the bar to get into the mini fridge to get ice for Sam and Finn. He and Mike always drink it neat. 

It’s a ritual, really. Rugby season starts next Monday and then he’ll be working his ass off day and night. And like, he knows he’ll end up with a few fucked up injuries on top of all the work he has in classes, so he likes to welcome this shit with at least a little fun.

It’s a little warm, so he peels his sweater off and hangs it on a peg that’s made for something else entirely. He doesn’t care. This is his room. He can do what he wants. 

He makes a toast about greatness and kicking ass and it’s pretty much complete bullshit but no one else seems to notice. He just sort of grins as their glasses clink together and then he takes his first sip, leans his back on the bar as Finn goes for a sandwich as soon as he’s wet his lips. Mike’s phone is back in his hand and Sam is saying something about … fuck if he knows. He’s one of their closest friends, actually, but he goes to Carmel Day now. He also stopped playing rugby in favor of lacrosse after his transfer sophomore year. 

“Why are you married to your phone?” He asks and Mike just moves his eyebrows and shrugs his shoulders. “Don’t be a dick, Mike.” 

Mike just laughs, takes another sip of scotch and presses his phone into his pocket then grabs a cue—not Puck’s, because he knows what the fuck is up – and says, “Don’t be a pansy, Puck.” 

“Uh, you’ve been grinning at your phone like it has a pussy. I don’t think I’m the one we should be worrying about.” 

Sam laughs and Finn kind of gapes around a bite of eggroll. Mike just smiles and moves around the table to grab the chalk from the small compartment built into its side. 

“Rack ‘em up,” Puck says to Sam as he grabs his own cue. Sam takes a sip from his snifter, sets it on the bar and asks what tonight’s bet is as he retrieves the box the billiard balls are kept in. 

“I kind of fucked around in a bet with Jesse, so…” Finn starts, brushing his hands on his jeans and looking halfway guilty.

“You’re bringing down the wager because you fucked away your money?” Mike supplies. Puck chuckles because, well – Finn blanches and shrugs his shoulders. 

“Like, it’s whatever. I’m just saying.” 

“How about two-five?” 

Sounds good to him. He’s going to win it all anyway. 

He peels a stack of hundreds out of his back pocket and watches as the rest of the guys do the same. Finn grumbles first but nobody fucking told him to make bets with Jesse – about what Puck really does not care about – so he needs to pony up. They all stare at him until he pulls out his own money, all fucking bent out of shape and shit. 

“In the pot,” Puck says and they all move to the cherry wood box that’s normally on a low shelf behind the bar. There are four clips inside and they each secure their “donation” before dropping it in. Sam closes the lid because it’s his turn then he latches it and taps the top. 

“Same rules as always,” Puck starts, thumb tapping against the side of his cue. “I kick your asses and I’m 10k richer. If someone’s lucky enough to actually beat me, well, we’ll go from there but the chances are slim.” 

Finn actually looks offended but both Mike and Sam just look up to the challenge. It’s cool. He doesn’t like an easy fight. 

…

He kind of really needs to understand what Santana’s up to. Like, really. 

He knows her and Mike finally admitted that all that phone time was spent on texting Rachel because they’re apparently dating or going on dates or … whatever the fuck people do. He’s not fucking her, which means he’s a fail and this shit is suspicious. He also mentioned that Santana was the one who pointed him in Rachel’s direction.

She’s sitting against her headboard reading some book when he comes into her room. She just gives him this bothered look and rolls her eyes then focuses them on her book again. He sits on her bed because she hates it, plucks her ankle with his middle finger. She kicks the fuck out of his hand and narrows her eyes at him. He just flings a balled up hundred dollar bill (thanks guys) at her. 

“What is your problem?” She pegs him with the bill then kicks at him again, mutters that he’s a bitch. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” He asks because she’s being really fucking sketchy setting this girl up with a dude he knows Santana is fucking. Plus, she’s still hanging out with her, which, like, Rachel is hot but she doesn’t know she is and she dresses like … he’s glad he mostly sees her in uniforms, okay? And Santana is shallow, so. 

Anyway, he really just wants to know what her fucking angle is.

“I don’t have an angle.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“Look, that sllimebag Jesse is trying to woo her with his bitch voice during rehearsals and he fucking sucks so I set her up with Mike. No biggie.”

“You’re jealous.”

“Of who?” 

“It’s hard to tell, but I’m going to go with Jesse. You’re like ten levels of gay for that girl. You’re dying to fuck her.” 

“You’re kidding right?” 

“I fucking know you eat pussy.” 

“And I’m good at it too, bastard, but that’s not the point. I don’t want to fuck her and believe me, if I wanted to, it would have happened already.” 

“Whatever. She’s just super straight and you stand no chance.” 

She’s quiet for a moment until her eyes light up and her tongue slides over her lips as they spread into this little grin. And, fuck, if he isn’t thinking about – 

“Sounds like you want her, Noah.”

“Not really,” he says, running a hand over his head. “Not really my type.” 

“She has two legs and a vagina. I’d say she’s your type.” 

“Whatever. I could tap that before you easily.” 

“You’re goading me. It’s cute.” 

“No. I’m betting you.” 

“Betting me, what?”

“That if we both fucking went after her I could bang her before you could.” 

She laughs then tips the glass from her nightstand to her lips. He’s sure that’s not just orange juice. 

“Okay, Noah. We’ll see about it and when I win I get your pretty little GT, okay?” 

She’s such a bitch. 

“You have a car.”

“Scared you’ll lose?” He hates how sure of herself she sounds. 

“No.”

“Suck it up then. Besides, I like things in twos. Shoes. Orgasms. Why not add your little toy to my collection?” 

“And what do I get?”

The fucking smirk she pulls makes his dick jump. He fucking hates her for it. Her hand slips into her shorts and he can’t stop staring at her knuckles pressing up against the fabric, “What you’ve always wanted,” she says innocently, head tilting to the side, breath shallow. 

“Yeah?” His voice totally betrays him and she snickers a little before she lifts her eyebrows, nods with her lip wedged between her teeth. 

“Yeah, baby. You can have me.” She pulls her hand back up, splays it across the skin her crop top is showing and, fuck, the tips of her fingers are wet. “Any way you want me.” 

It’s a bet.


End file.
